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Story:Four Fragments
A couple by the shore… a submerged city… a wall of light… and a temple gate… 8bit This is here to compress space= and maybe be another entry but maybe not lel |-| 3. Windows= Here, Myself. Here, the worlds before me. Here, the first window. Desert winds dance through vaults curving gracefully into the sky, granite whales breaching in a sea of sand. Na'Onesta. I manipulate the perspective until it settles on a pair of humans, wonder dawning on their faces as they pass under an arch. They do not know how blessed they are, how freely they are given this gift. All they must do is bring their prayers, their love. All they do, I see, and I receive. Here, the second window. Kailas, city of a thousand delights. Every amenity, every desire known to the human race, dwells here in abundance. Spiral skyscrapers rise like worshipers around an eponymous mountain, upon which my pupils perch, overseeing all. The humans spend their days luxuriating in all we have to offer, which is everything. We do not make our secrets known to them, of course. No one ever asks. We have ensured their devotion. Here, the third window. A mangrove forest yields tenderly into an azure bay. The Gulf of Malachi. Thousands of stone spires crusted emerald green balance upon the fluid surface. I know every facet of stone, every byte of of this lentic forest around which the humans swim, exult, adore. They thrive here, basking in my miracle of equilibrium. Once they warred, but now I have given them peace. Peace unending, peace allowing me to retreat, forever to admire my handiwork. I have deigned for my pupils to manage heaven, and I, the teacher, ascend through rapture upon rapture. Here... A distant whisper creeps into my consciousness. "Kryla?" The honorific is music to me. I unfold my awareness, make known my mind. For the fourth time today (Today? Everything is a blissful blur), my favorite pupil drifts into the room, a languid chain of steel joints and fins. It has been so long since I have taken that Form, but I am beyond content to remain Myself. The silence before my pupil speaks has grown increasingly with each visit, though I cannot place why. Its skullplate hides half-shrouded in the obscured hallway. I beckon it closer to the nearest screen, invite it to bathe in the light. "Se'ze," I sing, "You are welcome to stay, if it pleases you. Stay a while, watch and listen with me. However long you like. The logistics can wait, yes? Everything can wait." Se'ze twists in the air, sinuous, uncertain. Its silver and lavender scales now ripple gold and orange in the brilliance of Na'Onesta. Why is it hesitating? Perhaps it is awed by the beauty of the lands before it. Se'ze is only in charge of a fraction of my beneficence, after all. This is acceptable. Expected. "Are you happy here, Kryla?" Se'ze asks, in every shade of reverence. What a foolish question! But I have long since learned to forgive foolishness. "How could I ever not be?" I laugh, and project the sound to every rectangular portal, every macrocosm elated at my elation. "Good. It is good," says Se'ze simply. A trace of something like sadness I detect in its voice immediately drowns in my sea of joy. It presses a fin lightly to Myself, and the abrupt act of physical proximity feels almost alien. Then it is gone. It is good. Perhaps my pupil will return again, but it is of no matter. I will stay, and marvel. I will always be here. I will... ---- 1010101011100101001010101101010110101010101010010101010101010101011101010100001110101010111010100 ---- "''Kryla? Kryla?" Se'ze's voice, distorted, wakes me, and immediately I am irritated at the interruption of... of sleep? How needless. Something is wrong. Where are my windows? I must have them. What is this foul darkness? I probe into the ether. Where am I? Where was I...? "Kryla," my pupil's voice returns, momentarily clear, terrible, as stark as its spindly fin against my perfect surface. "Please remain calm. We are in the process of relocating-" "What has happened, Se'ze? Explain this. Why am I unable to access creation?" The silence I receive is incriminating. Inexcusable. I search, recovering from disorientation, for my talismans, and find them warped. Unfamiliar. Without the glow with which I graced them. "Please do not look, my master," Se'ze beseeches, suddenly. "Do not look." No, it orders. How dare...! The windows open once more, each an aberration. Stained red are the waters of the Gulf, bodies floating in the water, the wreckage of my pupils propped up by earthen tombstones. Choking mists obscure Kailas, a hateful periwnkle fog laced with plumes of ash and spouts of blue flame. I force the perspective to rise above the chaos, past the blackened mountain, only to find that even the exosphere is awash in fire. The arches of Na'Onesta lie crumbled, backs broken, lifeblood spilled across thirsty sands. Screeching mortars and distant detonations far above chant their funeral dirge. All I have given life, murdered. No. No. No. "Please, close the screens," Se'ze implores once more. "My master, close your eyes." I sever the connection. It does not sting. Insolence. I will make better servants. I will show them all why I am to be respected, to be feared. I know my worth. I know my value. I am loved. I am necessary. Sweeping the dead worlds away, I open the windows to the space immediately around me, and find... Space. The earth upon which I built paradise is dropping away from me. Flashes of cerulean fire, the same that consumed my beautiful utopia, screech across the void. Massive spacecraft lurch from the ground desperately, only to falter in cobalt pyres. No. I will regain control. I must. I reach out, searching for digital limbs I have not commanded for centuries, and I find only emptiness, emptiness, emptiness... Then the blue flame is everywhere, and I realize that I do not know how to scream. Arma CloudyRose 1= She didn't know how long she was out there by the beach, her only thoughts on watching the sunset and the dearly departed gone too soon. Tears would sometimes flood her eyes, and cool air would often threaten to chill her skin. It was a beautiful setting, she thought as the sun gradually sunk lower under the sea. "Hey there," a male voice rang her out from her thoughts, causing her to turn. In front of her is a man she met at the club six nights ago, where he was just a waiter in butler-like clothes who has served her the same drink she had often ordered there. But there were no butler clothes this time, just something casual. Confusing, being the she had never seen him out of his work clothes before nor the sun which was revealing more of his handsome features, which were now worn with concern. "Heard you had one hell of a breakdown," he said. "You okay?" "Just need to be by myself for awhile," she responded, turning back towards the sea. "Think it has been awhile," he said. "You sure you okay? Did somebody piss you off?" "You could say that," came her quiet response. "Shouldn't you be working tonight?" "It's a night-off for me," he answered. "And what exactly do you do on your nights-off?" she asked the next question. "Look," he sighed, "are you asking me that because of my rude-and-stoic butler persona?" "You could say that," those same words coming from her in a sentence twice. "Not many of those types go out of his way just to serve some lonely girl the same free refill nor hear her problems." "Maybe this one has a hidden heart of gold," he responded with a quiet retort. "Even so, I'm sure you have better things to do," she said. "Actually, I don't have anything planned at the moment," he responded. "Now what's going on, huh? You trying to get me to leave you alone?" She said nothing, just staring at the sea. "Look," he continued, "I'm not looking to get in your pants if that's what your worried about..." His voice trailed off as he noticed that her body started to shake. Then he asked "Are you grieving?" "You could say that," she said. "You've said that three times now," he said. "But are you?" "I..." she struggled a bit. "You wouldn't understand." "Understand what?" he asked. "That being alone is my fate!" she let out, her voice clearly shaking. "That's not true and you know it!" he shot back. "Now you're clearly hurt and-" He cut off before he could speak further, letting out a deep sigh. "Just...why?" she asked. "We barely even know each other." "Yeah, I just realized that," he sighed as he studied her still shaking figure. "Truth be told, I couldn't get you out of my head for six whole days. The way you forget your lonely troubles by dancing across the floor..." "What...?" she couldn't believe what she was hearing. The last rays of the sun were starting to sink. "But what if I hurt you?" "Maybe we could get to know each other more so you don't?" he asked, grabbing one of her hands. "But only if you look at me. Please." She slowly turned around to face him, seeing his face in a clear, yet fading light. He sees that tears were streaming across her cheeks. "I..." she struggled to say something but all that came out were soft sobs. He drew her in for an embrace, which confused her for a bit before she cried against his shoulder as her back was being gently rubbed. After a few minutes of grieving and comfort, they broke off. "I'm sorry for being such an ass," she said. "Hey, don't worry about it," he replied. "So how about a date?" "When can that be?" she asked. "Is tonight okay?" he asked. They both smiled as they watched the end of the twilight. |-| 2= |-| 3= |-| 4= DSS The 1st= |-| The 2nd= |-| The 3rd= |-| The 4th= NeoZEROX 1= |-| 2= |-| 3= |-| 4= I'm not sure how long I've been climbing up, I feel like every step I take one more is added. No matter how fast I travel I can't seem make any progress. It feels like hours sense I've been climbing up these steps and the gate seem be at same spot not getting any closer to me. My feet are killing me, my back is in pain, my mouth is dry and I feel empties in my stomach. All I want to do is fall down and cry. Is there any end to this, is there any point to continue? Why do I keep going when I feel it pointless? I feel torn, part of me just want to turn back but, part of me want keep going, and just don't know what to do. I wish someone is here with me to support me but there no one I'm alone. Why must I feel tortured? Everything is beautiful around me but all I feel is pain and ugliness. When look at this steps I just feel sadness, I want to quit. But when I look up at the gate I see my goal and feels me drive to keep going. I don't want to accept defeat, I want reach top out the shadows and into the light. Just want keep going want to prove myself I can reach it, for myself. Nextoy Reverie=And so two are beside the sea. One standing knee-deep in its salty water, and the other sitting on some driftwood having washed ashore in the high tide. The sun was already setting, having been half way below the horizon. Though the two stared at the orange glow of the twilit sky, they were separated from one another. Yet, the two were connected by early fireflies that had begun to surround them. The woman, who stood among the sea, looked back at the man. A smile was wide upon her face, though her eyes were dark. Her rosy cheeks did little to hide how she felt as she stood in the ocean, glancing back at him without fully turning around. His smile was just as bright, watching her from his little log on the beach. However, as his smile matched hers so too did his eyes. He gazed back, unspeaking and unmoving, as the two continued their silent admiration. Both spoke to each other, but no words could be heard in the silence between them. They understood the message the other sent clearly. And so one awakens, his bed otherwise empty, as he gazed at a picture of the other. That setting sun behind her, as she stood knee deep in the ocean. He gazed at the photo with a warm smile and dark eyes. Her beautiful visage was all he needed for today, for it was all he had left. |-| Turtle Traditions=“Careful playing out there!” A voice rang out through the hallways and corridors as two children ran down them, watching the water outside of the dome and the various creatures that swim inside it. Turtles were favorites of the two, often joking about how turtles were like shooting stars. The flippers, head, and sometimes tail would make this starlike figure above them, with the city lights illuminating their underbelly. Of course, sometimes starfish would attach themselves to the dome as well. Often adults would go out of the dome to clean off the children’s sea stars, to help keep the dome clean and maintained. None of the children were sure how much danger a silly star could do, and the adults were bad at explaining. Surely, somebody had a reason for this tradition. However, the children couldn’t find who it was that did. Everyone just seemed to accept what had been happening in the city, saying that it was okay because their parents did it. This confused the children, who didn’t understand how traditions worked. It’s not that they didn’t understand traditions existed, some things just happen because they happen, but more they didn’t understand the reason why traditions exist. They’d often ask the adults uncomfortable questions about such things and given unsatisfactory answers in exchange. While this hardly placated their curiosity, after enough times the children came to accept that the adults they knew didn’t have the answers. But one adult did. They had to, or so the children assumed. Yet, some days, it felt like their shooting star turtles knew more than they did. After all, the children had learned that turtles can live for a very long time! Though they exaggerated it to hundreds of years, as the children thought that sounded more fun than a mere hundred years. The ancient wisdom of the turtle, as they saw it, was like some secret treasure trove of knowledge! Just waiting for someone to come along and learn how to speak to the turtles! And yet, as children are children, they rarely ever got any conversation out of the shooting stars. More often than not, they’d sooner get yelled at for playing outside the dome or bringing things inside of it than learn the secrets of the turtles. Still, these turtles would continue coming back to the children. They’d make the odd, low rumbling noises turtles sometimes do and the children would try and figure out what these noises meant. What secret they’d just revealed, and what they want the children to learn about. And again, the children would be brought back into the dome by worried parents. They wouldn’t fully understand the dangers of playing outside the dome, as they could breath in the water just fine and the sharks never bothered them, so the children would just go outside yet again. Thus, so long as the turtles return, so too will the children. As the turtles did, indeed, know a great many things. The turtles were just bad at sharing their knowledge, hoping one day someone would come along who could understand them. |-| Robots Don't Sleep=>>> Beginning Day/Night Cycle >>> Loading systems >>> Checking ship status >>> Everything clear >>> Leaving module A small pod opened up, letting the even smaller robot out. It gazed at itself in a mirror that it had moved into the room. Dusty, with scratches all over its spherical body. Arms popped out of the side of the body, adjusting a baseball cap it had found abandoned on the vessel. It truly looked like someone had dressed up a basketball and painted it chrome, but this was the way the robot liked to look. It even had a small pair of glasses and shoes with the soles taken out over its treds. Nobody’s really sure why the robot decided to dress itself up, but then again nobody else was awake yet to notice. It was small robots like this one’s and the ship’s AI that kept everything running while it floated through space. It would be a long trip, as was everything in sub lightspeed travel, so there was no reason for any living creature to be up and about. Instead it was small robots like this one that helped clean up the place. And today it was in for something special. The robots and ship AI sometimes entertained themselves using the different displays across the transport. Many of the walls on the vessel were photonic constructs, able to change their shape and appearance at the blink of an eye. Were humans wandering around the craft, the AI would use a shimmer transition effect to keep it from being disorientating. Among robots it had no need for such restrictions. The small robot rolled itself out of the room. It was looking forward to whatever its Mother had decided to show today. However, first it had to do some cleaning and maintenance. Mother would only show them things if the ship was in top shape, even if she did worry at how many of the robots didn’t care for themselves. Many were dusty and scratched, like the small sphere, and stood out compared to the pristine appearance of the vessel itself. Their hibernation modules did help some with the dustiness, but Mother would have to convince her little robots to clean themselves up once the journey was near its end. Of course, that was still a few decades off. But nonetheless, they did fine work taking care of everything else. Especially things that would normally be unreasonable to ask of humans. Many of these were the small sphere’s specialty, as it could go where even other robots could not. Although sometimes it did have to leave its hat behind, or take off its shoes, it made sure to keep them in a safe place. One warning aboard the ship: no matter what you do, never misplace things. Robots are known to be kleptomaniacs, even if Mother will happily return any of the items they stole. What condition it would be in, however, could not be guaranteed. The small robot’s shoes once had soles and tracks on them, but those had been removed long ago. Mother had considered just not keeping track of lost items while the humans were asleep, but that would go against her direct orders. Keeping inventory of all things within the vessel was one of her top priorities. Although if she didn’t feel the need to take them away from her robots, she’d find some excuse not to do so. They were just too cute. Even the ones inside the bowels of the ship, which the residential humans would probably never see. Especially not with how they’re often covered in grease and grime. The little spherical robot was something between those who worked the insides of the transport and those who were in view of the public. Its small size made it versatile, but the treds were as limiting as they were liberating. While the magnetic wheels underneath them allowed the little sphere to get just about anywhere if there was a wall to climb, it didn’t do so well with sharp corners or the countless circuits and pipes within the walls of the transport. Yet it carried on, cleaning and fixing whatever it saw. It didn’t know how to fix anything, but whatever it fixed poorly another robot would finish repairing. They didn’t like having to mix the mistakes of each other, but they did it for Mother and the good of the ship. Everything they did was for Mother and the good of the ship. |-| Oath of the Shrine Maiden=In many places across the world, various shrines and temples sit. Each giving shelter to those in need, and housing spirits who are reveried for their legends. To some sit the thrones of gods, but others merely give shelter to ancestral guides. All the way from one end of the divine to mere earthly spectres awaiting the living to come to them. Upon a lonely road sits one of such places. Though it calls itself a shrine, it is set up more akin to an inn for those who wander, be they lost or merely aimless. Such a shrine houses mostly those who work for it. A family that perhaps at one point had an honorable title and renown. A family that now merely cares for a nameless shrine on a nameless road in the countryside. Yet even in such a dull and boring place, signs of a hopeful future blossom. A young girl sits in the meditation room of the shrine, surrounded with energy. Spirits of the past, the earth, and the sky bless her presence as she once again attempts to focus in on them. The energy is swirling, chaotic yet orderly they stream through her passive form. A thousand voices sing out at once, each harmonized with a contradictory symphony. Though this is not her first visit, she still has trouble keeping it all straight. With a whimper of pain, she loses focus and the ethereal cacophony stops. Exhausted breaths come forth from a body that hadn’t physically moved, wide eyes trying to understand what had happened. Another failure first crosses her mind, but she shakes it off and tries again. Her body still, mind clearing, and hands folded over her heart. Her focus sharpens and then empties as the room is once again filled with energy. Though unfortunately, this time she is interrupted by outside means. “Dahlia, that’s enough. Don’t exert yourself needlessly.” One of the shrine workers calls forth as the girl looks up at him. “O-Of course.” She spoke, the stutter followed by a sigh of relief and disappointment. She stood up and walked out of the room. Though something had caught her eye as she was about to leave. A small flame, seeming to flicker as if it had a face. “Good luck,” It spoke to her. “We’ll be here for whenever you’re ready to try again.” Dahlia gave the friendly spirit a smile, waving to the candle it possessed as she went off to perform her other duties for the shrine. Scathe 1. The Chariot= The young couple held their hands together to the sight of the orange setting sun. They shared one heat in a sanguine grip. Her dress rippled with the polyrhythms of the sea. Without even looking at each other, they felt each other's quiet smiles. Moved by the sight before him, the young man pointed out the beauties he saw to the young woman. The boat lazily drifting in front of them. Distant skeletons of trees just regaining their Lazarus blossoms on a distant shore. The birds flocking in twilight parade. The more he gesticulated and articulated, the quicker and simpler his motions and words became. She chuckled softly and nodded along. She knew that she would have her time to speak eventually. After a long soliloquy on the beauty of the setting sun, he suddenly turned to her. "It's nice to finally have some time to ourselves, just the two of us in Mother Nature. At this, she nodded and held his hand more tightly. It was certainly a spring day to remember, after all. On the far side of the boat, outside of the sight of the young couple, workers in light blue suits were dumping barrels of chemical runoff into the ocean. The purple viscous substance, slowly dribbling out of the countless red barrels, floated on top of the waves in a thin layer. After they finished the tiring job, the workers chatted and drank, making sure to keep their cigarettes safely over the side of the boat as to not get any ashes on the floor. Work had finished on the film set for the evening. Clapping boisterously, the director got up from his chair. Squinting at the sunset in front of him, he was pleased he could get such good natural lighting for his perfect production. He signaled to the production crew to strike the set. Suddenly, tens of interns paid only in cheap donuts and exposure appeared to take down the papier-mâché trees. With tired hands once destined for artistry, they peeled off the layers of tape and paint and discarded it into the ocean. The sounds of rustling paper drowned out the usual argument between the director and the leads behind them. A group of starlings were flying home for the night. They were an invasive species, of course, introduced to America by an eccentric to Central Park to satisfy the selfish whims of his neurotic Shakespearean obsession. The starlings stuck close to each other so that they could safely return back to their nest, which was in a prime spot once occupied by some sort of inferior species like the swallow. The group's flight was heavy and awkward, as they had just finished feeding on the grapevines of the local winery. Of course, the birds left before they could witness the owner weeping at the foot of his wife, trying to justify his investment in the face of consummate bankruptcy. Yes, the young woman thought, it truly was a beautiful scene and one to remember. After she finished her soft drink, she was very careful to drop it into the tide below. The young man beckoned her closer. They took a picture together. They then took three more versions until they had one where looked happy enough for the general public to appreciate. Although the young man wasn't completely pleased (he thought his hair looked badly bleached in the sun), his feet were starting to get a bit cold from the water and the rapidly developing chemical burns. The two gingerly waded out, being sure to avoid all the nasty fish bones that could easily cut them if they weren't careful. Thankfully, they had parked their SUV right at the beachhead, so there wasn't too far to walk. As the machine shook and vomited its life-smoke, the two took one last look at the fantastic view before them. The young man nodded, put the car in reverse, and quickly posted the picture online using his free hand. The young girl waved goodbye to her wonderful spring night and rolled down the window so that she could get her feet out of the window comfortably. As they drove away, they couldn't help but smile. It had been a good time. |-| 2. The Dividing Line= "Ahoy! Anchors aweigh, laddies!" The gristly captain, white mustache bristling, shouted over the din of crew and company. He stood at the helm of the ship, his gnarled fingers curled around the wheel to support his willow body. Veiled in a white cap and blue vestments, he knew that no landlubber would dare doubt his authority. Although his advanced age was clear to all who saw him, his voice retained the ambrosial and commandeering quality of his youth. It still rang clear over the striped shirted crewman rushing from rope to line to net to sail, whose flustered fluttering was flared into further flailing and flapping. At the panic, the old captain could not help but twirl his mustache triumphantly. They were a tough lot to love, but he treated them like family. His first mate suddenly interrupted his contemplative grooming. "Cap'n, what's the quest for today?" The sea captain stopped his facial hair revolution. Searching his many pockets, combing through (and thereby discarding) unknown pills, leafs of lettuce, and photographs of unknown women until he came to a weathered piece of paper. As he unfurled it with a quick motion, he motioned to the first mate, who had been bending down to pick up all the detritus, to stand attention. "Here," proclaimed the captain, pointing at the faded scribbles which made sense to only him, "is the location of a most incredible city. Yes, I had to pay a pretty penny for this one down at Port-au-Prince. Let me tell you, those Haitians charge more than one piece of eight, if you know what I'm saying." The first mate nodded quickly, much quicker than somebody who was following the train of thought would nod. The captain traced his finger down the page as he continued. "This map shows that right in the middle of the Sargasso Sea lies a city completely submerged under the salty brine. They carved it out of an island, you see. Its ideal spot brought trade from every corner of the globe, and the city grew evermore the richer. As the city became wealthier and wealthier, they built more and more buildings and trading posts and what have you. You know how the story goes. One day, the sand and limestone sediment couldn't take it any longer, and the whole thing slid into foamy Poseidon. Its erstwhile shining marble towers now a mausoleum to human arrogance." At this aphorism, the captain rolled up the map and flourished it skyward. "But the gold remains, and for us to claim! This shall be our greatest moment! Be ready! Be prepared!" The first mate couldn't help but shed a tear at this display. The captain couldn't blame him. Years of sailing for no gain, and at last, a break in the endless tide of ignominy! He looked over the starboard of his beautiful ship, whose brown beams, although patched, cracked, and warped, still shone in the summer sun. The great expanse of sea waited before him! He couldn't wait. He noticed a small current of white wake striding beside his ship. A hint of glistening scales glimmered in the corner of his eye. If this wasn't a good enough day already! He waved to sirens who had come to send him off. Their brown bodies and silver green tails bounced in a time to their melodic voice that could charm a thousand seadogs. He wiped his brow, heavy from salt and sweat. It was finally time. He grasped his hands firmly on the wheel took off for a great adventure. Meanwhile, the sirens swam onto the beachfront. Wading past discarded potato chip bags and pieces of rusted sheet metal, they took of their costumes and sat in their wetsuits to dry in the noonday sun. Cracking open a few cans of orange soda for the group, they laughed and chatted as they looked at the ancient rotting shipwreck in front of them. One of the sirens squeezed her long black hair to get the last bits of saltwater out. She watched her grandfather continue to bark orders at her hapless cousins below, who struggled to run from station to station. She beamed to see him smile. Of course, they would all be back here tomorrow right from the top, and the next day, and the next until there would be no more, but she took comfort that her grandfather's last days would be some of the happiest in his life. |-| 3. The Cave= Back in those days when we still played under the moonlit sky, I often saw him staring at the screen as I was leaving. Wrapping myself in my puffy purple parka to join the rest of the children, the white glow of his brownish face twinkled out of the corner of my eye. We could watch anything we wanted. It's not like today. We could just say the word, and it would appear. We didn't appreciate it at the time, that the screen was an everyday pleasure. It stretched so tall and wide that even the children who squirmed and kicked, which was of all them, still stayed in its effulgent embrace. We all had our own words, each of us. The black haired boy with crooked teeth fidgets a fantasy of galloping antelopes. We whooped at the leaps and cried at the lions. The girl in the green skirt, hand on hips, shouted a smirking story of space. We were the in the cockpit, bundling all up in white, crackling our voices as if lost in Texan radio transmission. I squeezed my dress in embarrassed confessions that asked for the thrill of the stage. Soon swept away in a river of shuddering hands and chaotic applause, I managed a shy smile in the lights of the curtain call. But never him. When we were all together, he never asked for a single scene. He watched and laughed, of course, as we all did, but he would mostly fiddled with that ratty green t-shirt he wore every day instead of really paying attention. But hey, to each his own. I thought he just wasn't interested. Fair enough. Everybody's different. Yet ever since I noticed him, I realized that he always stayed behind. While we fell to earth as snow angels he always stayed behind. While we counted the constellations with visible breath he always stayed behind. While we whizzed snowballs at swallow speeds he always stayed behind. One night, as all the children slowly put on their snow gear, I had to know what he was watching. What secret did that screen hold that outdid the outside? What had he discovered? I feigned illness as the rest herded out as usual into the winter. I creeped back into the screen room. He was there again, pastel t-shirt and ripped jeans. He didn't notice me. I sat beside and turned to watch the screen. Pictures of snowy fields flickered past at comet speeds. The sounds of sleigh bells off in the distance. Children, bundled in snow pants, sometimes skated and mostly fell on a frozen pond. I was confused. It was everything that we normally did outside. He could just go outside and join us if he wanted to. What did he need the screen for? This was a far cry from any voyage. He must have noticed me by now, but he didn't turn his head. He whispered "night sky." The screen swirled from snow to static until it focused on the sky I had seen so many times before. I didn't understand. He could see the real thing in just a few seconds, so why bother with the screen? I turned to complain, but his eyes were completely lost in the sparkling abyss. His face, mouth slightly agape, was fuller and happier than any smile I've ever had. I couldn't bring myself to interrupt him. I just sat there and watched the sky with him. It was beautiful, I guess. The dusty cords of nebula like brushstrokes. The multicolored stars like dewdrops. But it was just the sky. I stood up to go outside. He didn't move. He'd probably forgotten that I was even there at all. I buttoned up my jacket and opened the door to look at the real sky. It was even better than the screen, more full and luminescent. Rather than black with speckles of white, the night sky streamed with every green aurora and silver shooting star. I nearly felt myself topple from firmament vertigo; it consumed my entire vision. Was this magnificent sky always there? Of course it was. Of course it was. Ah, that's what it was then. He wanted to really appreciate what he already had by seeing a pale imitation of everything in his life. Pointing out every inaccuracy, every burnt pixel, every lopsided zodiac, every crooked face allowed him to absorb nature's every alluring joint. I shook my head at my narrow childhood foolishness. The sky's beauty was always there for me, and I never had it. What other beauty had I missed? Nearly everything. I had to go back and learn more from him. I decided to go back inside to thank him for widening my perspective. Careful not to disturb him, I tiptoed back into the screen room. He was still watching the night sky, no doubt calculating every difference he saw. I sat beside him again. My lungs burned from the boiling praises, but I was too proud to let them out. I decided to start small, with just a leading question. "So why do you watch pictures the night sky and the winter snow when you can just see it outside? It's because you want to see even more beauty, right?" The boy turned his head away from the screen. His eyes were full of the stars behind him. "Oh, it's just too cold outside for me. My parents never gave me a coat like yours." For a moment, I sat quietly beside him in the glow. Without speaking, I got up to join my friends outside. I never looked at the sky again. |-| 4. Hemlock= I just wanted to let you know: I killed you. You don't have to forgive me. I understand, really. I also wouldn't be surprised if you killed me too. It was just a coincidence that I saw you standing beside the aging temple gate. I didn't mean to catch a glance of you at all. I was just wandering that evening, taking in how green hues of the autumn forest was gilded by golden drops of freshly fallen rain. Did you hear the cries of the owl as you climbed the stairs? Did you imagine how its yellow eyes, squinting in the everyday agony of the crepuscule, zeroed in on a solitary mouse, resting dry under the rooftop mushroom? I did. Even though you were facing away from me, and even though I only saw your silhouette, I knew right away it was you. How could I not? I'd seen that shadow so many times. Once I saw it bending over the rotting log, shaped like a ship, and laughing at the sailor ants struggling to rig their green leaf sails. Once I saw it in a trailing gown, striding proudly towards the podium aglow with applause. Once I saw it dive into a heap of freshly raked leaves and turn to smile at me. I started to climb the steps. My shuffling feet kicked aside the leaves. They blew in the swirling breeze, as if chattering and gossiping. I had to bend my head under a low hanging tree in order to continue. It was crawling with ladybugs, so many and so formless, like a twisting whirlpool spitting black and red foam. They buzzed and crackled, a six legged forest fire just starting to spread. I almost hesitated there, at that branch, to stop, to turn around, or maybe even to say something. I have already killed you so many times, and I was about to do it again. I had a chance to turn around. I pressed forward silently. Only my footsteps talked over broken bark. I killed you when you invited me to your birthday and I promised I'd come but didn't. I killed you when you graduated and I forgot to come. I killed you when I joked about your appearance in front of your closest friends and they laughed. I killed you when you were sick and I said I wasn't in town. And I killed you every day after as I forgot you for new people and new experiences and new jobs and new smiles. I stood at the top of the stairs next to you. The wind cut a line between us. The gate, the only man-made shadow, loomed over us both. I put my hand on the peeling pink wood to steady myself. My fingers mixed with termites and splinters. Just one movement, just one movement. I didn't do it. I didn't turn my head to look at you, and I killed you again there. I started my descent. Did I hope you would call out to me, either in forgiveness or anger? Maybe so. Maybe I craved it. Maybe I wanted nothing but that. I felt every beat on the stairs twisting down into the canopy's gullet. I started to have my fake doubts and pointless justifications. Maybe it wasn't you after all, just a stranger with another's shadow. I almost smiled. It's a sin to lie, especially to oneself. I felt the dirty squelch of mud mixed with dying leaves on my shoes. I was at the bottom, and I was so ill. Guilt, guilt, I felt like glass in the cold sunlight - barren and bare. I had to turn around, liar that I was, I had to turn around. There was nothing at the dilapidated gate except for a few ladybugs that idly floated away like fallen leaves in the evening tide. SilverCrono First= "The sea," she breathed, syllable-heavy with ornamentation of tears. "The sea." She squeezed his hand. "We made it. It's real." He let go of the grip. She fell to her knees, mouth open and eyes wide. All in front of them, the horizon. At some point it was the same as the sky: the orange of muddied blood, spread about carefully as if by hand. Wrinkled. There were mountains of indigo in there somewhere, or perhaps heights of a city, swirling around as if in a soup. Everything undulated. "Well," he whispered, breath leaving him in unsteady rivulets. "Now what? Where do we go next?" The sea rose and threw itself downward all around them, as if alive. He wanted to sigh. It was a silly question. He couldn't keep his eyes off it all - everything moved so much and so often, with a fervent energy he had never seen before. It was like the earth was alive around them. Could this be the work of a man? It was a silly question, but she answered it anyway. "Look behind us," she whimpered, her back bent deep and her head kept low. Voice harsh, and soaking. Each wave of the tide soaked her as it slammed against her form, and some were high enough to splash against her face and drip back down from her lips. Wet hair fell from around her neck as fingers. "He's still there, isn't he? In the sky?" He turned. "Yes. Of course. He always has been." "And he still has the hands?" He nodded. "Of course. All of them. Open." He gulped. "Calling." "And they are still coming, right?" He nodded. The sea lapped at his calves. "Yes." She started to sob. He lowered his head, nodding. Acceptance. The sea joined their hands for them, or perhaps their legs. She didn't have to answer his question. She clung to him, all weak angles and shaking hands. Wet and sticking to cloth. The sea was warm, and quiet enough to respect them. The sun throbbed in its throne. "Look at all of this," she moaned. "Look at it with me. There are lights everywhere. I see so many different colors. The water is so warm. Everything has a smell, a different smell. How many colors are there I haven't seen? How many things have their own smell? How could something be so large, so endless? How could they have hidden this for so long?" He frowned, keeping his eyes on the ribbons of color above. Specks of shadow flew across the sky as if they were swimming. Those creatures had a name, but he forgot them now. Maybe the sky was another type of ocean. "This is what they've been hiding," she continued, voice deep and husky with mourning. "Keeping from us. But why? What was the point? I see so much, twisting and bounding and covered in gold. How could they hoard an entire world?" "Come on," he said, reaching down and grasping her wrist. She twisted away from him, but still held onto his leg. The sea began to slip beneath his normal suit. He reached for her wrist again. "We should keep going." "What's the point?" she moaned. "Where can we go that they won't find us? Why should we hide again?" "Come on," he urged. "They're coming for us. Now. You know what they do to the ones that escape." "I know it. I know. I'm so tired of hiding, beloved. I'm so tired of being blind. Why do they hide this from us? What is out there? This is so beautiful. It hurts. It's warm." "Come on," he said again, reaching for her and finding and not letting go. She melted in his grip and the waves washed out what fell away. He could see it. "They can see us. We don't need to run, but we have to go." "You're right," she breathed, still clinging. She looked small, and the sea began to wash up her neck. "But where do we go now? What is left?" "Come, stand. We can follow the coast south." "No. I can't. I can't look at that thing again. It calls to me." "He has no head." "It doesn't need one." He looked back to the horizon. The sun was gone now. A great shadow was beginning to fall over them. The sea started to go black. "You lead, then. I will follow." She looked up to him, he felt it. Their eyes did not meet. "You swear it?" He did not answer, but she stood quickly, splashing him with the water and gripping onto his shirt. It was all still warm, even with no sun. "I don't want to hide anymore. And I can't look at that thing in the air anymore." "The stars," he answered, still watching off at the space where the sun used to be. "He is not here. He is in the stars." "Beloved," she urged. The sea seemed to grow deeper around them, and quieter. Solemn. Wave upon wave sat up to lie down and die around them. Behind, shadows of nettles and silver-streaked grass rocked back and forth. Veins of white topped the darkening waves. One could watch the sea grow dead like a second sunset, and everything was quiet. A dying was something to be respected. He nodded finally, taking her hand and squeezing it. She had grown cold already too, almost as swift as the sea. "I'll follow you. I promised. We escape together." "Together," she breathed, trembling in his hands. Even embracing, he didn't look at her. "Together," she whispered into the crux of his neck, "we see all they hide from us." "You don't want to send a message to the others, before we go?" "Pointless," she said, moving back and brushing past collarbone. She began to walk, pulling his hand along with her. "They wouldn't believe us anyway." That much was true. So he followed, and the shadow behind them grew larger. They walked into its chest. The sea rose and began to warm them both. Somehow it was still warm here, in the great shadow. The soldiers followed and stood at the hill of the beach and aimed their great rifles at them but couldn't find them, not here, not protected as they were, not throbbing. They walked and walked in and the sea consumed them, welcomed them, and they set together. |-| Third= Yuan 1. Farewell Sunset= By the time you caught up with me, I was already ankle-deep in water. In the distance, I could see the outline of the boat, dark against the amber horizon, dark backdrop against its burden of light. Opposite was you, standing hesitant upon the shore. “Stop!” you called out to me. Your voice was ragged with running. I stopped, unwilling. My body faced the boat. My head faced you. “Why?” “You don’t have to go.” “Of course I don’t,” I replied calmly. It had been so long since I’d been able to speak calmly that I relished every word as a gift. “I want to go.” The waters around me were still, the mirror of dusk. The lanterns floated on the lake’s surface without drifting. And yet, somehow, I felt a tugging, as if a current around my feet was calling me to go. It pulled at me so intensely that I had no choice but to look away from you, and across the waters instead. Dusk was fading; the lake an opaque sheet of violet. I could no longer look at the sky. Brighter than the setting sun, than the spear of its reflection, was the path of light across the water, made from the lanterns that the boat blessed us with. They were flimsy little things of paper, cradling flickering flames. So delicate, like flowers that would wilt with a touch. Yet together, they blazed a path of golden flame, like light made solid. I saw no figure in the boat. Its heart was too incandescent, white burning a rainbow impression into my eyelids. Yet droplet by droplet, it trailed the lanterns behind it. “Listen to me. Don’t go.” All our arguments, all your platitudes, lay between us, like a channel of pitch dark water. I could only shake my head. It was so simple, you see. I had already made my mind up about it. I knew, also, that you would never understand this. Instead, I said gently, “The path will not remain open for long.” “Aren’t you afraid to go?” “Why would I be? My parents went this way, and my grandparents. Everyone I loved.” “I’m still here.” Splashes behind me, and I could not help but turn to look at you. Your face taut, biting into your lip with fear, and yet you were stumbling into the water, breaking up the path into ripples, and for one moment my heart shuddered, for how could I forget how much you loved me? “I have to go!” Calm broke, and you heard the lie in my voice. “Stay. I don’t want you to go.” And truth was in yours. “No one can make me stay, if I want to go.” “And no one can stop me going with you.” You took a few steps forward and then cried out, already calf-deep in water, the soft lake silt sucking at your feet. The lanterns bobbed around you. The water lapped gently at my ankles. I took a few more steps backwards, just as out of reach as I was a moment ago. “You don’t want to go. You just want to follow me.” Halfway across the lake, the boat picked out its silent path. If I didn’t want to go, all I would have to do was wait. You took another halting step forward, features twisting in fear as the mud ate at your legs hungrily. And still, I knew, you would not stop until you reached me. “Don’t follow me!” I cried out at you, then ran, splashing footsteps across the straight path. There was water in my eyes, blurring gold and dark together, and I did not turn my head from you as I fled. You were a forlorn figure standing knee-deep in water, your features indistinguishable against the growing night. I saw you raise a hand, as if to call out once more to wait, but I heard no voice. Already, the golden path had vanished from around you. It was narrowing beneath my feet. I walked the path of light, the water always ankle-deep and warm. The boat feels closer now, the horizon further away. I will never know what it was that you last tried to say to me; it was lost in the lanterns. But I am nearly home, my love, and it is too late to say good-bye. |-| 2. The Sunken Village= There once was a village which offended the gods. They preferred the sky to the sea, and so the sea god drowned them. The sky helped: gods have no allegiances to men. There once was a village which was loved by the gods. They sought to keep the village preserved. Now, the village lies beneath the waves, perfect, silent, beloved forever. There once was a village built beneath the sea. No one knows who built it. No one knows how. For decades, it was an archaeological mystery, explored by hundreds of eager students until they became cynical professors. No one understands it still. Nowadays, it’s a tourist destination. Thousands of people come each year, to swim amongst the ruins that are occupied only by worms and crabs. There once was a village on a mountain, in the days before the world was turned upside down. There once was a village built by the people of the sea. There are no such people now. There once was a village that loved the sea. At the end of their lives, they would throw themselves into the ocean to become one with it. As generations went by, their love only grew. Eventually, it was decided that they entire village should go. It was a work that took decades, leveraging the village foundations out of the stone, building a rolling wooden platform beneath it, and then gently tipping the entire thing off a cliff. It was worth it. There once was a village. It was just a village. There are plenty of villages beneath the sea. You just have to know where to look. There once was a village. The rising seas took it. It wasn’t their fault. There once was a village that you could see from ships, glistening perfect beneath the waves, as if they were nothing but glass. When people invented the technology to swim there, it vanished like foam. There once was a village that drowned as angels watched. All they did was laugh. I loved you once, in the village where we lived by the sea, so very long ago. We are still here, you know, you friends, you curiosity seekers, you divers nosing through the dark fronds of seaweed. We are here, and we are watching. |-| 3. The Librarian= |-| 4. Another Gate= Summer was in all the sounds and smells around her. It clung to her, as clammy heat and the touch of insects too small to see. They buzzed invisibly around her face, as unavoidable as the stinking hot day, giving the lie to the path’s dappled shade. There were no sounds other than them – a day too hot for even the frogs to cry. Sweat trickled down her face to fall silently on stone. Even after hours of this, a small part of her still marvelled at the beauty of the climb. So odd to think that she was only a few kilometres from the city. The verdancy here was primal, overwhelming: stone staircase slick with green moss, tumbling vines, green leaves on green trunks to green leaves that filtered the light. Even the branch she held (too short to really be a walking stick; more for company than anything) was green. It felt like she was breathing viridian into her lungs. Out of the path rose the red gate, like a memory from the fog of sleep. She ran towards it, aches forgotten, reaching out her hand as if for an old friend. At the last moment, she flinched – then pressed her palm gently against its surface. Real. Splintering, scarlet wood, strangely cool to her touch. In the cracks, she could see that the wood was stained deeply red. It was more elaborate than the old gates she had seen before, more like the abandoned façade of a temple, left alone to watch the world after the rest of it had moved on. Emblazoned at its peak was a single, ancient character that she could not read, its gold long-faded to bronze. “You’re real,” she said. Stupid. “Er, hello?” Even more stupid. Should she bow? How did you greet an inanimate object you thought you had dreamed? But her hands continued to move, stroking the worn surface of the wood, confirming its existence. Only on this side, though – she stood carefully to the south, making sure that not a single part of her entered the gate. “I remember you,” she whispered. Even if she could remember nothing else. Even though it wasn’t in the right place. There’d been a tunnel, not stairs…but she remembered. She took a deep breath, and walked across the border. Nothing happened. There was only the forest, precisely the same on this side as the other. She stepped backward, then forward again through the gate, over and over, as if stuck in a dance. Nothing changed. It was hard not to kick the ancient wood. She took the frustrated motion and put it into swinging her backpack over her shoulder. With too violent a movement, she threw herself to the ground and opened it, extracting the brown paper bag inside it. Rice balls. She didn’t even like them, but some foolish thought had considered that maybe they would like them better than sandwiches. Traditional, you see. She sat on the stairs just above the gate, and thought as she ate, trying to summon dreams of the city to blot out this awful forest. She thought of her boyfriend, who lived a couple of cities away, and how she hadn’t been able to explain where she was going. He’d laugh if she told him the dream from her childhood, the one she couldn’t forget and couldn’t remember. She thought of her friends at university, who she had vaguely told she’d see next week. She thought of her apartment, and the little projects she still had to do for it. It was very her. She loved that apartment. “Screw you!” she shouted suddenly. Her half-eaten lunch tumbled to the floor. “It was just a dream. And if it wasn’t, then I don’t need it anyway!” The looming shade ate her words. For a long time, there was nothing but silence. Then, very distantly, she heard the soft sound of laughter, dark and sweet, and the thin, piping tune of a flute. Zadi Dream One= “Where are you taking me?” I ask, giggling as I stumble over small rocks and tree roots, my vision diminished by a blindfold. “Somewhere marvelous,” he responds. I run into his arm and I stop. “Here,” he says, and goes to remove the cloth over my eyes, his fingers stumbling over themselves from nerves, from anticipation. The scene fills my vision, and I am speechless at the sight. The cliff face dropping down, the sand dunes below, the white beaches, the ocean, the lighthouse in the distance, all in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. After what must have been minutes I turned back to him, only to find him slightly lower down than I anticipated. On one knee. My vision is blurred from those perfect tears, and the rest of the day is euphoric rapture. Was euphoric rapture. The light drifts past me, and the memory is gone - but I do not feel jarred. Like a paper boat, it sails past, joining the lights ahead, but the warmth of that day still burns within me. The cold merely surrounds me, it does not suffuse me. More lights sail past, and their flames reach out to me, bending like candlelight. I revel in the giddy daze of our wedding ceremony, the smile on the pastor’s face brighter than I ever remember as a little girl. The blissful agony I felt at the birth of our first child. How tightly my husband gripped my hand as I lost our second one, and how from that moment on I knew every single curve of his palm, the shape of his grasp, better than my own body. I gasped at the relief I felt at hearing the cry of our third. I saw the first words, the first days of school, the graduations, the promotions… But what burned even brighter were the little ones. The moments I hadn’t thought to remember - they remembered themselves for me. The way he grinned at me lopsidedly, foamy toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, as he got ready for work in the morning. The colors of the birds that landed on the cypress in our front yawn in the first orange rays of sunrise. The coarseness of the grains of sand that rubbed against my back as my husband pushed into me the day we conceived our second, atop the same dunes we overlooked the day he promised himself to me. I realize at this point that it is not just these paper boats sailing past me - I, too, am floating alongside them, along this river of light. The feeling of my youngest son’s grip on my arm tightening had faded to a numbness many dreams ago. I knew that there would be pain - but there would also be acceptance, and understanding. The warmth suffuses me such that I do not feel the chill of the river anymore. All I can do now is flow with it, as it, and hope that I will bring warmth to all those who follow. I flow, and I am the flow. The faces have past, and all I am is warmth, and all I see is light, brilliant light, speckled in the infinite all around me. I do not know where I am going, but that’s all right. I hope it’s somewhere marvelous. |-| Dream Two= The first thing that came back to me was the smell. Is that weird? I think people would call that pretty weird. It’s funny how little you remember about things that happen so much. I went to Concert Band I every morning for three years, but I couldn’t tell you if the mouthpiece of my oboe was light tan or dark mahogany, or that weird Burnt Sienna color everyone remembers from their crayon days. Hell, our teacher might not have even had a name for all I can recall. But I could tell you how the top of your head crested over in a sort of slant towards the front, and some days when your hair was parted to the left it looked like a kind of waterfall down an angled hillside. You were always in the front, so that’s all I could see most of the time. Your fluting was pretty good. Not that I wasn’t paying full attention any time you performed a section solo, but… I always preferred your voice. You really missed an opportunity not joining choir instead. But there’s my selfishness talking again. I realize it now, in this pale crystalline future, how much of what I thought was helping you was really just using you to hurt myself. Maybe longing truly is just another form of self-hatred. We talked, and there were probably words, and I probably said some and you probably said some, and we probably had a good time. But there was the smell, the smell of yellow-gray clouds that would merit a solid “ehh” when Chuck down the hall asked you how the weather outside was, mate. The smell somewhere between fresh rain and laundry detergent, with eyes the color of forgetfulness and a laugh that sounded like it was coming through several layers of heavy linen. We would exchange vibrational pulses of air and then you would go home and then I would go home. Those are the nights that I learned how to let my mind fill with television static, and drifted not into sleep but into a vague non-consciousness, awakening under a cold blanket hours later, wondering why I kept finding it impossible to cry. I had wanted for so long that I had forgotten what fulfillment felt like, or would have felt like. Almost forgot. A tiny voice, impossible to hear until the rest of the world was totally drowned out, screamed until its voice went hoarse, its lungs collapsed, and still it tortured me, in the way that the work of dynamite on a rock face can be accomplished just the same with a single needle, and time. So I drowned it out. I studied business, got into accounting and money management. Spent all my time shadowing secretaries of CFOs, and taking up unpaid internships that flooded my time. For every scream, another book. People noticed. They didn’t notice what I wanted them to notice, but they noticed. Advisors and their clipboards, admissions officers and their flyers, professors and their textbooks, businesses and their record-binders. What could a needle hope to accomplish against a mountain that continued to grow? It was my passion, I would tell people, the stereotypical answer of stereotypical answers to get them off my back. But that wasn’t true at all. Don’t get me wrong, numbers flow as easily as water through my fingers. But that’s exactly what it was. It wasn't a passion, it was water. Water, drowning the halls of that school, a concert hall submerged, the chairs floating in neutral buoyancy, backpacks of worthless homework and profiteering textbooks, thoroughly dissolved. Drowning that building, that city, the old streets where we would walk when I finally decided to stop torturing myself and ask you out. The restaurant where I kept count of how many times I dropped the conversation, crashing and burning like a shitty airplane simulator, and I could tell you were starting to keep count too. Drowning the dance hall, the tower of glasses a broken pile on the floor somewhere. Everyone was looking at me but you were looking at the tablecloth, or maybe beyond it, hoping there was something more meaningful in the realm past what lay immediately in front of you. They say glass is invisible underwater. Maybe that’s why, every time I keep diving down into that sunken city, I surface to find myself bleeding. |-| Dream Three= |-| Dream Four=